


Snow Is A Bastard's Name

by StarkMad



Series: Princess At Winterfell [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: A new Snow at Winterfell, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:30:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkMad/pseuds/StarkMad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grey was the color of home, of the winter sky when they'd the chance to look up from the battlefield, of her eyes sharp and searching. No other color could compare. Not to Jon. Not ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Is A Bastard's Name

Grey was the color of home, of the winter sky when they'd the chance to look up from the battlefield, of her eyes sharp and searching. No other color could compare.

* * *

"Is it raining?" he asked.

Only the sound of his heart beating filled his ears before someone replied.

"It is." came a voice directly above him. Her voice. He would know it anywhere, cracked and tainted in pain as it were.

"There's no wind."

"There is none."

"We're inside."

"The roof is leaking."

"Warm showers in winter?"

"..."

He felt another drop fall on his cheek. Then another falling close to his mouth. He could feel it cool against his skin before something warm brushed it away. The cold from the stone floor kept seeping through the rug he lay on.

"Don't. Please. Sam says it is only temporary, my sweet."

He lifted his hand towards her voice, her hands immediately reaching out for it, pulling it to her face. His hand against her cheek, he held it, feeling the wetness there. She nodded jerkily against his palm.

"...I know. Still-"

"Kiss me."

A stifled sob reached his ears before the familiar warm softness of her lips pressed against his. Despite the darkness, the warmth of her slight form pressing against him was comforting. As they broke the kiss, he held her still atop his chest.

"I thought only ladies cried while clinging onto their knights?"

"You're no knight."

"What am I then?"

"A lord."

He turned his head as she shifted to nuzzle against him, unable to shiver as her cold wet cheek brushed his neck.

"A bastard lord, you mean."

"Aye."

A heartbeat passed before asking,

"...Will you stay?"

Her hands tightened against his robes.

"I canno-"

"How are the others?" he said loudly, cutting her off.

"Jon, I-"

"Is Sansa well? And the boys?"

He felt her hand ghost against the side of his face as he heard another audible sob.

"Jon, I-Bran says I cannot, that I will not stay. He's seen it. Sansa knows it, even Rickon. Nymeria has gone ahead with the other wolves."

He felt her shift, the sound of shuffling cloth, before he held her tighter. Facing her, he clumsily found her lips.

"...you know I have to"

* * *

He had no right but...

she made him happy.

* * *

They had been at war for so long, the days have blurred together into an endless string of snow and bloodshed, but despite it all, he'd-no, _they'd_ been able to find some semblance of peace with each other. It was all he could hope for.

* * *

His lips were on her neck again. Soft and needy against her skin. Her hand reached back, finding his form to hold her steady. The familiar ache between her legs made itself known as she found her other hand slipping in between them, feeling the slick hungry heat. His calloused fingers running up her thigh were not helping as his other arm twined around her waist. Even with her maidenhead long lost, he still managed to make her quiver like some maid not yet bedded.

_Too slow._

"Stop teasing." she growled.

He replied by pressing his stiff cock against her back.

"We should try doing it slow, once and a while."

And she would laugh in reply and they would fuck hard and fast because that was always the way with them, as if their bodies knew that time would never be on their side.

* * *

She should have stayed, she thinks not for the first time. But things had to be done, she tells herself again, not for the first time. Gifts to be given to so many who deserved it. She was no longer a servant for the Many-Faced god but she wasn't likely to forget the lessons she'd learned. Still, she should have stayed.

If she'd stayed, maybe she'd be exploring the keeps of New Winterfell with the rest of her family who'd gone and claimed it. Maybe she'd been there for Bran's coronation, smiling knowingly by his side without losing hold of Needle under her furs. Maybe she'd been there for little Rickon's wedding though he was little no more. Maybe she'd be warm and comfortable and clean, what with winter and their war against the Others almost over.

And maybe she'd not have to birth the child she carried alone and maybe she'd not have to ask the help of her brothers and sisters, if she could still call them that, of the House of Black and White whose hands were as bloodied as hers.

And maybe she'd have had the chance to tell Jon sorry, that he was right, that she should have stayed, and if she did, then maybe the child wouldn't have to be a bastard, another Snow when the sweet child's father no longer bared the name.

And maybe she... _No_ , she did right by leaving, she tells herself stubbornly, even as her vision blurs, even as the one on her right murmurs reverently _it's a girl_ , even as she feels the slick weight of the squirming child in her arms, even as her world fades and the last she remembers is the child's loud wailing and Needle by her side.

* * *

There would be no grander stage for a child birthed by one of their greatest than Winterfell, thought those who'd taken a sense of duty to their sister who'd shared their faces. For the first time since its creation, the House of Black and White decided to give a gift that wasn't from their Many-Faced god.

* * *

The Great Hall fell silent even as the kingsguard and queensguard tensed and huddled protectively before the main table.

The center of the floor had been cleared for the red-cloaked performers, entertainment for the festivities and the troupe had traveled north with the Targaryen king's court. They'd danced gracefully with blunted knives and swords to the bated breath of their audience and even the old Crows from the Wall who'd been unimpressed so far had watched mesmerized. That was before the performers had shed their cloaks, before the heavy oak and iron doors burst open, allowing a gust of snow in.

"Greetings to the bride and groom."

A man with red hair, streaked with white called, doing a mock bow while baring his teeth in a dangerous smile. He was at the very fore of the group who had masqueraded as a troupe of traveling performers.

Jon leaned forward, as much as he dared, to glare at the newcomers. As much as he had wanted a distraction from that day, having intruders so blatantly threatening the most powerful people in the realm was too much.

"And of course, to King Bran, King Aegon, Queen Meera, and Queen Danaerys." He added with a flourish. The hall remained silent, everybody tense, despite it being filled with experienced warriors, soldiers all who'd battled wars just recently over.

It should have been insulting really, but the invaders gave off an aura that had everyone in the hall still and unmoving. Of course, the six daggers pressed against the throats of those seated at the highest table were enough to still anybody thinking of doing anything stupid.

"We mean no one here any harm, only taking precautions, is all." Called another man in a voice that sounded oddly thoughtful, training an arrow at a knight who'd caught his attention by shifting slightly.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Bran said, calm and curious, cocking his head to the side. Jon could only turn his head slightly, feeling the sharp edge pressing dangerously against his exposed throat to see his brother, no, cousin looking unperturbed. The one who'd spoken first only smiled again before signaling someone from behind him to step forward, a child holding something bundled in cloth in her arms.

"We wish to return something that belongs to the north for we believe it deserves a name and we find no need for such things where we come from."

The girl carrying the bundle seemed to float forward, slipping past the guards to approach the highest table. Going around it, she stepped slowly, pausing shortly by Aegon's chair, and then Bran's, finally reaching the groom.

"Snow." she hissed.

Jon turned to her fully, dark brow furrowed.

"I am not called that anymore, girl." Not since Aegon had insisted he be legitimized. Not since _she_ disappeared.

"No, Targaryen prince, but she is."

The girl replied quietly before pressing the bundle into Jon's arms. It was surprisingly warm and alarmingly soft. A babe. Jon only blinked up at the strange girl who was watching him with blank eyes.

"She is called Snow. Her mother gave no other name."

With that, the girl reached out to pull aside cloth, revealing a babe sleeping, breathing softly against Jon's chest. Jon felt his heart constrict strangely, a feeling of confusion mixed with something completely unsettling.

It was Bran who broke the silence that followed, Jon's mind already knowing it to be truth, strangely enough.

"Arya's child." Bran's voice almost a whisper. Sansa had stifled a gasp, her perfect mask breaking for the first time that night while the rest looked either confused or shocked.

"You know her by that name. In the end, she was not one of us but it was not her place to say she no longer served. The Many-Faced god granted her her gift along with a child."

This time it was the red-haired man who'd spoken, his face as blank as the rest. As if by magic, they left, only the open door, the floor wet from melted snow, and the child in Jon's arms evidence of their presence.

The noise that erupted after went unnoticed by Jon who stared and stared at the babe against his chest, then suddenly pressing the child into Bran's arms before reeling forward to crumple behind the table. An undignified creature sobbing brokenly against the stone floor before Aegon and another dragged him off to his chambers.

* * *

"Would you change your name?"

His eyes blinked open, sleep tempting him to ignore her. Unfortunately, sleep was no match for an Arya who wanted to talk.

Propping himself on his elbows to regard her, who was awake and strangely contemplative, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, Jon brushed away the urge to kiss them bruised. He'd done that and more so if Arya was in the mood for a talk, they'd talk. He allowed her to elaborate before deciding to reply.

"Snow, I mean. Would you change it if you could?"

This time, her eyes, wide and piercing grey, were staring up at him, searching. He dared not turn away.

"If you'd have asked me before all of this, before I'd gone to the Wall, I would've said yes in a heartbeat."

"But I'm asking you now."

He laughed at her huff of impatience.

"No, if it means you'd call me Jon forever."

And he kisses her, smiling into the kiss as she retaliates by taking his breath away yet again. He knew she'd always hated hearing people call him Snow, people calling him bastard, that she remained a Stark despite being somewhat an outsider like him.

Breaking away breathless, he feels her hands on his face, forcing him to look her straight, grey eyes fierce and earnest.

"I'd call you Jon nevertheless."

* * *

He changes his name eventually, she learns in one of the taverns down south close to Dorne. The dragon would always have three heads, she'd hear, but he'd always be her Jon, Targaryen or Snow.

* * *

"No." His voice rang clear and sharp in the Library Tower they were currently using to argue a most pointless idea to Jon.

"Jon, please. At least listen-"

"No."

Jon eyed the silver-haired man who was more stranger than brother to him wearily, resisting the urge to glare outright.

"Jon, Aegon is right. A Stark's marriage to a Targaryen would help smooth things over between the two realms."

Jon loved Bran a great deal, quite more than he could ever feel for his estranged older brother, but he glared nonetheless. The calm tone the youngest man in the room breaking his resolve to remain civil. Jon whirled around to turn his glare on the bride Aegon had in mind for him, ignoring the looming figure of Clegane.

"Will you not say anything?!"

Sansa's icy blue glare reminded him too much of Catelyn at that moment, it was hard not to step back. The Lady Stark rarely let slip her mask, but gone was the naive little sister he'd known. The years had changed them all. Not for the first time did his heart ache for the one Stark who should have been there, by his side.

"I care little for this arrangement but King Bran has a point, _Prince_ Jon."

Her words sounded accusing to his ears despite being as proper as ever. How was this happening? Even Bran had turned against him yet they all knew what Jon really wanted, _who_ Jon really wanted. Was he the only one left who believed _she_ would return? Was he the only one left mourning?

"It is your _duty_."

He turned stiffly to look back at Bran, the younger looking apologetic but he'd known exactly what to say. Jon was a man of duty, they knew, they all knew.

"I will never bed _you_." His voice cracking, unwilling to look at eyes that would never be grey, his grey. And maybe for the first time since Jon had known Sansa, he'd heard kindness in her voice directed at him.

"I know. You won't have to."

They left him then to stew in his despair. He would rage before finding himself laughing with little amusement at the fact that the Hound had dark hair and that Bran knew, they all knew.

* * *

He does not need to hear what they say about him to know how they see him. It did not matter. They did not matter. Only recently did Winterfell start to matter again, or Sansa or their _children._

They started to matter only because _she_ thought them important and little by little his view of the world grew, as _she_ grew. His princess, his sweet wildling princess. And maybe, a day would come when his world mattered once more, because for now, Jon felt content in seeing the world through _her_ grey eyes, still young and new and innocent.

He did not mind being called Uncle Jon, as long as those warm laughing grey eyes were trained on him.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Had this lying around for a while around the time I wrote my first Jon/Arya fic. The inspiration? A very opinionated person decided to send me something that basically means(ranted more like): "Jon ends up with/marries Sansa you sick-o". I'm not sure she'll/he'll be happy to know I found her/his pm quite inspirational.


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